In Yu'pik Eskimo folklore there's a wonderful small creature called the ircenrraat (pronouced ik-ch-in-uck). A land dwelling dwarf being, an earth spirit, and quite similar to my very beloved Celtic leprechaun. Rumer claims they take advantage. Rumer claims they are hatred of the human kind. Evil little darling dwelling in the sides of the tundra hills. Oh but the dearest Eskimos who fear them, they don't know the truth of them at all. For ircenrraats are not just elves wondering the wonderless. They're lovers of many a things. Coins in fact, are among their dearest favorite. They like pennies, for the color is so close to gold. But the designs are so much more intricate than nuggets, so they prefer them even more. In which in exchange for such wonderous things, they befried the human who offers them up. And in return they show them the world. Opening up their secrets and paths to gold never discovered. Ircenrraats hate the ungreatful, the cold-hearted, and judgemental. And they will scold such humans without one thought at all. But to the giving, the loving, the beautiful souls, they'll lead to ever unimaginable wealth. Other's just never thought to ask... Such a shame I'm the first to discover their fun little souls. For judgements shall never be vanished by simply a white girl's words...
Waiting On A Moment
Every Eskimo in this village is causing lust in my eyes. I've only seen one white man since I came here almost a year ago. He's the one I promised to spend for ever with. I like a mail order bride, an English traveler, a boughten wife, gave my word to lay in only his bed till earth takes him away. And I fell in love. I'm still in love. But, why oh why must the brown eyes and sweet smiles of the wondering Natives keep my heart on edge? I just can't help it. I yearn for sex my own age. I yearn for anything more than the feel of his five o'clock shadow brushing against my cheek. Just once perhaps. Just one misstep in a life of perfection. Could I be blessed one mistake, one chance to feel another man? But what if it's better? What if I like him more than the one I love? My craving aching body claims it's worth the risk. It can't go longer without the attention that is lacked in my bedroom. But the moment is still awaited to arise. Should I change my mind before it does?
Cheating Temptation
I'm not the cheating kind, but the butterflies are sturring up within my soul. I love him, I do, but the temptation that surrounds me at this moment in time is unbearable. The front door squeaks when it's opened and it's the sound that keeps me from leaving at night. Not my own respect or care for his emotional wellbeing. He's a wonderful man, never once done me wrong. And I can't sit here and pretend as though I have reason to be looking elsewhere. But I just am. My heart can't help it and the world is closing in fast. I need a hand to hold, attention, something more than what I'm given here at home. And perhaps the sunlight's brightness has lifted my spirits, but the high hopes are not directed towards the love I already recieve. I'm looking a different direction now and I can't bring myself to apologize. It's the first time I've had the opportunity, but God knows it won't be the last. I can't just walk away. My hearts pounding to heavily now. I'm doomed for failure, and I just hope he never finds out.
Rainbow's End
As I stood up to stretch my back after being bent over picking blueberries and the few rare cranberries I could find, I caught the most beautiful sight. For right ahead of me, just beyond the hill I was standing, landed a rainbow. The rumor goes that one can never reach a rainbow's finish, but right in front of me in full view I could see the rainbow's end. It arched deep into the sky and planted it's array of translucent colors on the pond not nearly a quarter of a mile from where my feet stood. I sat in awe, my mouth dropping slightly at the inspiring view. And then the thought came to me- I must go to the end! For there could be gold and I shant miss out. So as I made up my mind and my foot took it's very first step, the colors began to disappear. They evaporated into midair, vanishing from the ground and upward. I ran faster and faster- for I must keep on target and go to where the gold may still be! But twas gone, the rainbow was gone, and I couldn't quite seem to find exactly where it had been. For such a magestic thing leaves without a trace. And I sat, puzzled by it all. Had the rainbow read my thoughts? Had the gold been only barely past my reach? But did it really matter? For I had seen a rainbows end, and such an event is worth so much more than the most significant riches.
Welcome, Jack Frost
The wind is getting crisp now. The air falls to frosting temperatures at night. My wool sweater has been pulled out of the closet again. It only lies in there a few months of the year and I hold out as long as I can before bringing it out again. But this summer has been so dreadfully cloudy and rainy, fall has come on quicker than usual. I keep hoping for a sunny day to warm the atmosphere again. But such hopes are quickly dashed by rain showers. So instead of moping at summers quick end, I'll take in the chilled feeling. The tundra is turning beautiful shades of red, pink, purple, orange, and yellow. It mimicks the early stages of a sparking fire. If only it burned with warmth. Perhaps then this cold would not bite so sharply at my nose.
American Girl Dolls
Oh, how I've always loved American Girl dolls. Ever since the age of eight I've had at least one in my company. There was Molly first. She lived during World War II. I wanted her, because like me, she wore glasses. My mother got me her because my father was also in the military and was away for periods at a time. She was my only present that Christmas. For my family was not the wealthiest in town and could not afford such extravegant gifts. Next year I asked for Kit. She lived during the Depression. I wanted her because my hair was also short and blond. My mother got me her because, like her, I had a knack for writing. Kit inspired my love even further. And last came Kaya. She was a Nez Perce before whites even came to America. I wanted her because... in my heart I have always had a Native American's soul. My mother got me her because she saw that same quality within me. And with these three girls in hand I lived out my childhood. Each one placing a certain something in my soul, inspiring me through their stories. They didn't have extra outfits, accessories, or other expensive goods. Rather, they forced my imagination to run wild and my creativity to explore. My collection has grown since then, just as my imagination and creativity has. Eleven years later and simple qualities like that of myself have not changed. Sometimes I'm grateful for my innocence. And sometimes I'm grateful for the three dolls that take me back to such a time.
Moose Hunt
My darling has taken me in search of a moose the past few days. It will be our food for the winter. August is autumn in Alaska. And fall is the time to hunt. Little does he know my wondering mind is never truly set on the death of an animal. I close my eyes when he aims his gun. My heart is too weak for such a thing. But I understand the need. For without the meat we would quite practically starve. This year our search has been empty-handed so far. But it's the searching part that I enjoy most. For when finding our winters supply, we get to take sunset walks through twisted willow and alder. The sunlight beams striking the ground haphazardly through the branches. And the path is covered in tracks of the many creatures that have taken the same steps just a few hours prior to ours. Lynx, fox, bear, and otter. Beavers homes rest near where we part our boat before heading through the trees to check the open praries. Mice and frogs scurry amongst our feet and in and out of the large ferns. The treks are short-lived and only lead a short ways to a clearing where we wait a few minutes before heading down stream to another path. But the walks through the sweet sunset shadowed leaves are the best part of all. For even if a moose is at some point harvested and supplies our need in the cold, the adventure of the hunt is the part that lies most deeply in my heart.
Antique Shop
Take me to an antique store. Let me wonder the aisles. Show me the glassware and old paperback books. Let me look at the toys and vintage dresses. And give me a penny or so, so that I may take something home. For in a place so wonderous and cluttered with energies from time past, it's impossible not to find something- at least one thing- that draws you in. Whether it's the design of a retired fabric, aura of a rugged glass doll, or simply just a liking of an item you have no further use for except to admire. And I just can't help it. I realize my tokens are of few and my bank has accumulated cobwebs. But the dearest joy of a new used item, well it just can't quite compare to a new-in-the-box sort of thing. It's more than a perfectly packaged specimen with tags in hand, it's a treasure- placed on the right shelf at the right time so that fate may bring it to my attention. And when something is so perfectly aligned with the stars, well I can't just pass it by. So I'll take this with my pennies, perhaps that as well. Shopaholic? Oh, no. Just a collector, bargain shopper, finder of beatiful things.
Aries and Pisces
He is my sunshine, I his moonlight. We're two completely different people. Opposite in it's finest form. He's quiet, reserved, close-minded, and logical. I'm artistic, outgoing, free-thinking, and spontaneous. He plans and prepares. I act on a whim. He argues for what is necissary. I argue for the sake of the disagreement. I am an Aries, a fire sign, the first in the zodiac. He is a Pisces, a water sign, and the last in the zodiac. Two such symbols very rarely have the stars align in their favor. I am too brash and wild for his taste. He is too boring for mine. He hates that I set my heart on ridiculous ideas. I hate that he ruins my dreams with level-headed thoughts. And yet somewhere admist all of the chaos comes mutual respect, some would even call it love, for one another. I like the way butterflies stir up in my stomache when his lips touch mine. I love the way he grabs my hand in the middle of the night. And even though there are a million reasons I hate him, I can't leave him. For even when I don't like him, I still love him.
Teachers Who Taught Me
Well it seems as though school has begun in my small Eskimo village. All of the children make their way up the winding road each day. I never attended the school they are walking to. In fact the school I attended is much much farther away. About a ten hour plane ride south east of here. But a darling school it was indeed. It twas merely my elementary school, one I attended from age 5 to 9. From there my family relocated to a different town, but the school that began it all still has a special place in my heart. Small in size, it's amount of love was overflowing. Such a place is magical. Where each teacher knows every child's name, as well as their brothers, sisters, mother, father, and grandmother. And the lessons are done with compassion for each child's knowledgable mind. The playground is wonderous. The lunch... well school lunches have never been a strong suit in any situation. But oh the love. For you could not even begin to fathem the hugs one is surrounded with in such a place. One could be warm without a fire on the coldest day when in the company of such wonderful people. I can only hope the children walking past my house this morning experience nearly half the joy I did at their age.
My Grandmother's Plant
I must admit my caravan is a small one indeed. A home I have come to appreciate nevertheless. And in such a treasured place, one must have plants. I truly enjoy hanging plants from cielings. Someday I hope to have a home large enough to hang a hundred plants from above. At the current time I have but one. A spider plant. But spider plants are among my favorite of creatures. My grandmother instilled the love of such things in me at a young age. For she herself collected the beings as well. And she told me a story of a woman whom she also met at a young age. And in the middle of the woman's home stood the most magnificant of all spider plants. From that moment on my grandmother set her heart on the lovely thing. And to this day her home is full of the long green leaves as well as other darling green babies. Perhaps someday I'll follow in her footsteps. Perhaps I already am...
Hats, Too Many Hats
A collection of hats lines my bedroom wall. I'm not quite sure when or where I aquired them. Yet over time they have learned to clutter my space and be worn for different occassions. I have fur hats for winter, wide hats for summer, decorative hats for spring, and warm hats for fall. I have a red hat for Yule, a flowered hat for Ester, and a spooky hat for Hallows Eve. There are hats absent of color, and hats too tiny to wear. Hats for dolls, hats for people. Hats my grandmother left me, hats my father bought me on his worldly travels. Hats my ferrets have chewed on. Hats I wore as a child. And hats I wear today. A little too many hats I must admit. But yet they're not decreasing in collection. Perhaps it is the time for a spring cleaning in autumn.
Blueberry Harvest
We gathered up everything we would need and pushed out into the river on our boat at approximately 11:00 in the morning. In all honesty that's quite early for one like me to be out and about. I'm not necissarily a morning person to say the least. I'm nor a late-night dweller. I suppose I just very much so enjoy my rest. But I was wide awake with excitement as we drove down the Yukon and into a slough called Clearwater today. The slough titled because of it's beautiful clear water. We followed it's twists and turns until we arrived upon a very steep hill. That hill, we in turn, trekked up to the top. And there they lie. Hundreds of low bush blueberries covering the tundra. I immidiately fall to my knees and begin to pick. In order to truly take advantage, being ground level is a necessity. Not that the desperation to harvest overcame me. I believe more went to curing my immidiate craving than filling my basket...
Coho and Chum Salmon
Fishing season drags on just an instant longer. Although the opportunities to participate are short-lived and sparce, the work of the nets wears the body. My arms tire and I've learned that even the strongest women must fight to be even in a career of men. It's habitual now, throwing out the net, drifting for an hour, pulling the net in, gathering the fish, throwing out the net. I'm sure you see the obvious here- that the process continues. Often times for twelve hours straight. I must admit times would be easier if king salmon were permittable to catch, for they are a many more coins that the chum and coho we currently catch. But nevertheless I find contentment on the waves. For being a fire sign my home should not be the water- but I do love the substance. And although the work is hard it is fulfilling. Only a month or so longer shall we be given the chance to get out- so I must take advantage while I am able. And for the time it's well worth the strife. A few coins in the bank and a full share of fresh air. Could one ask for a better day spent?
Swinging on Willow Branches
Let's stay beautiful in the company of a weeping willow tree. Hold onto our innocence the same way we do the branches as we swing forth and back again. Tie knots and make swings. Dance and play and wonder amongst this magic shade. Let the breeze whisper secrets into our ears. For it's moments like these, where our teenage hearts revert back to toddler pondering. These are the important times that remind of us of the beauty within ourselves, the beauty in our soul, and the beauty we can find all around us. So let the leaves sway and the sun set as we play in a place that every child alike can find wonderful.
Old Irish Quilt
It's stitches are a bit imperfect. The small squares of cloth mismatched. And to be quite honest, it's accumulated a bit of dirt in it's day. But it is my quilt. My irish quilt. Shades of green and gold, patches of leprichans and four leaf clovers. And I love it so dearly much. It's been with me since... well nearly the age of seventeen. And has remained close to me prior to it's arrival in my life. It's been to sleepovers, camps, apartments, and cabin bedrooms. It's been on vacations, in suitcases, in boxes, and in backpacks. It's muffled my laughter, wiped my tears, and kept me warm on long lonely nights. Although beginning to look ragged and old, it's warmth has never faded. And as long as it is free of insignicance it shall remain a part of every travel I embark on. A small yet necissary item forever in the background of my extravegant life.
New Home For Chipper
Chipper, my darling wild squirrel that I have claimed as a pet, has overtaken my birdhouse. The silly little character musn't know the difference between a coconut thread weaved hole and a true ideal home. The coconut thread house is much too small for the fellow. He seems quite content nevertheless, yet he seems to want to stuff his entire winter's supply of food in the place as well. So it's overflowing with chips, nuts, and raisens. Because of this he has forced me to invest 50 tokens on a much larger sturdier house for him. Originally it was created for woodpeckers, but there is no such thing in Alaska. And Chipper is a small squirrel- prime for the home. So it arrived in the mail and I nailed it to the side of my smokehouse today. I hope he chooses this new home over the latter. For it will surely hold him through the long winter's more comfortably.
Baking Buttermilk Bread
The flour flies into the air creating a white array of unbreathable snow. As it all settles a large lump of doughy stuff appears sprinkled in white. And my hands excitedly go back to work. I've spent the last half an hour whisking and mixing and kneading and throwing yeast and buttermilk and such. It's been an adventure. When baking bread one must really go into the day with only one deed in mind- to bake bread. The process from scratch takes quite some time. But oh goodness, when I finally take the small rectangular pans and place them in a heated oven, the home is enveloped in the smell. My mouth begins to salivate and I sit patiently awaiting the instant they are removed so that I may take a slice with a bit of butter. A simple taste, but a magnicant one.
My Rune Box
There is a small wooden box atop my bookcase. No bigger than a deck of cards. It's dark colored wood- for I prefer a maroon tint to my furniture rather than a yellow. And upon the top of the box, the lid I suppose you could call it, is perfectly etched the tree of life. When you touch that tree and run your fingers across the line that indents inwards, that box will begin to open. And in that box you will find a set of square figures with ancient symbols upon them. These are runes. Each rune etched with yet another tree of life on one side, and it's own unique symbol on the other. There are days where I take these runes and I dump them to my tablecloth. The ones facing down are carefully put away. The one's facing up... well darling, they tell my future.
With A Paint Brush
Cheap acrylic paints and a small collection of well-used brushes. One brand new white canvas and a lop-sided easel. All placed pucariously upon the top of a hill where I sit in my knit sweater and brown velvet pants. The wind is always strong here- we're too near to the sea to have a calm day. And now that it's mid August autumn has arrived bringing everything to a chill. The colors continue to enter different stages of metamorphasis throughout the entire time snow is absent. But this time of year, a small few weeks between August and October, is my most favorite time. Reds, oranges, yellows, and dark greens contrast with the vibrant pink fireweed and blue water. The lone mountain in the distance creates an awe-inspiring sillhoutte versus the purple sunset speckled with white clouds. And I take a moment, just one small simple moment each year, and attempt to capture this scene. This is my moment. So I breathe deep, view with inspired eyes, and paint my fall in my Alaska.
Imagination High
I love imagination, if you have not yet discovered that small yet significant fact about my being. I believe that my somewhat psychodelic wondering mind plays an ideal part in my artistic creations. For one without any sort of pretend land must live in quite a boring world. Rivers are so much more exciting when there a mermaids in the deep. And plants are so much more beautiful when they present a sense of human characteristics- like talking and feeling. When at rainbows end is a pot of gold, don't they seem to be a bit more mystical? And when toys are alive, don't they seem more playful? Although many may claim that such thoughts are merely childlike and immature, I will continue to hold them dear well into my adult years. I could not bare to walk through this world without the tiny hope that somewhere unicorns exist. It's thoughts like that, beliefs in such "ridiculous" things, that keep me happy. Imagination is marijuana to a child's mind. And perhaps the lack of smoke in my home, is do to the fact imagination never quite fades my natural high.
Children's Storybooks
Somedays I like to stay home, merely in the company of my own mind. Wrapped in a fleece blanket with a vintage children's book. Reading through the sentimental pages while reminiscing on times passed so very shortly ago. I'll slowly drink my warm cup of self-harvested dogwood tea that's been lightly tinted with honey and sugar. Days seem to be so ordinary now. No treehouses or raggedy anne friends. Now there's different sorts of dreams, all caught up in the battle between my innocent desires and womanly needs. I remind myself of a mother without a child. I'd really love a large family someday. A dozen little one's to share days like today with. To share my vintage storybooks, inspiring imaginations. To gather tea with on the tundra. And I must remind my wondering mind, all in good time, love- all in good time.
Princesses Harvesting Salmon
For extra coins collected in my bank, I fish salmon in the fall. My darling and I work together on most feats throughout the year. This autumn venture being no different than the rest. Pitching nets into the water and pulling out food for the world. But for a short-lived enthusiastic mind my mine, one must find some sort of entertainment on twelve hour tough work days. So as we push off the land in our much too small ship and sail into the river, I begin to pretend. The captain- a pirate. I- a kidnapped princess. And as the day goes on and my body wears itself sore, I imagine I am being forced to work to save my kingdom. Wicked seas are not so friendly to a girl so used to a castle. But I put my soul into the waters in the hopes of sparing my father, the king's, life. With dirty blond braids, torn ragged cloths, and a heart much too set on my knight in shining armor, I come back to reality. Four coins being placed in my hand, and a kiss from my love and partner on the boat. Twelve hours passes so quick when hard work is done in the land of make-believe.
Fairies Aren't Imaginary
Along the bank of the Yukon River I saw a fay today. Would you like to hear the story? Well, I shall tell it to you anyways. I was standing aimlessly. I really can't quite admit I was even having a thought. My hair was whisping in the light breeze and silent waves were making their way onto the shore. And while my eyes glazed over with nothingness, it flew by me. A small creature, no bigger than a an inch or two. It's body the color of a beige human's skin. The wings fluttering furiously fighting the wind. I stared configuring what it was. My mind raced to relate it to some sort of insect, none of which matched it's appearence. And as I glanced to the ground for a moment, I realized what it was. A fairie accidentally making it's appearence in human company. I looked back up to see it again, but vanished it had. I have reimagined it all day. Perhaps it was all but a figment of my imagination. But I can't help but wonder, I can't help but believe, living proof of an imaginary mystique crossed paths with me.
Bubblebaths
Vanilla scented candles line the walls. Steam rises from the antique bath as the flickers of fire dance across the reflection of the bubbles. Every four days or so, when dirt begins to show in my blond hair, the same ritual occurs. A small hour of relaxation among nothing more than purifying water spirits. I heavily sprinkle bath salts in the hot water. Strike a match and one by one burn the wax from the wicks until they catch light. I'll slip down my outer layers until nothing is left between me and the rush of hot humid air. Step into the water and let my skin tingle with the heat as it changes to find comfort in the warmth. My head will duck between the bubbles for a moment. I'll close my eyes, hold my breath, and let the dust fade away. For an hour I'll lay surrounded by liquid comfort. Turning the knob with by toes to reheat the water when it begins to get cool. And during that one hour, every four days, I'll renew. Give myself the chance to rebegin and let negative energies ago. As I step out of the water and let the comfort of the warmth turn cold with the air, I'll leave what isn't good behind. Taking with me only a clean slate. And I'll let the dirt fade down the drain with every other part of me I don't want to take further in life. Stepping out of a simple bath reborn. And anew this better version of my same self, I can be beautiful- inside and out.
Fortune Telling
I read runes dearest darling. Tarots, tea leaves, palms, and crystal balls. Scrying mirrors, scrying bowls, clouds, smoke, fire, and rocks. I make potions and trinkets, do charms and spells. Search for answers, spirits, animal sprites, and past lives. I'll interpret your dreams and tell you the truth. For I'm a gypsy. And I travel from home to home on an aimless path. Telling fortunes seems to be so stereotypical for a creature like I. And many would speak that one like me is illegitimate, a fraud of some sort. Claim I am merely a target to the weak hearted. But, if you trust to come into my caravan, take a seat across, I will look into my crystal ball and tell you what I see. I am honest darling and I work with tools not scams. If you're not saticfied walk out without leaving a coin in the jar. I don't ask for money. Because so I live poor. But I follow my heart and listen to the earth. I walk freely and without regret of the things I do. And perhaps what I think I can read, is just a psychward proposal. But then again, perhaps what I tell is the truth.
Thoughts In The Mailbox
Oh, how I truly love letters. With my beige envelopes and bird printed stationary I write almost everyone dear to me a note. Using black ink and a feather tip I practice my cursive admist a heartfelt collection of words I intend to send abroad. Sharing stories, thoughts, and recent events. And then I'll stamp the letters, address them from memory, and leave them at the post. Await a few weeks as I ponder up their journey. Did they travel by plane, ship, or train? And soon enough they will arrive slightly bent and dampened by rain, in the mailbox of an unexpected recipient. And as they reread the words I've already read, on the paper I picked for design, they'll think of me wherever I am. And what a sweet thought is that. That somewhere in this world I have been thought of. And perhaps, in a few weeks, unexpectedly, I shall find a stamped fold of paper that will cause a thought of them as well.
Window Water Droplets
One more Bering Sea storm this summer. Seems as though there has been a never ending collection this year. As the world south of me, connected merely by the title of the United States, fights heats they've rarely ever seen, I'm stricken with water and wind. Dark clouds trace the path of the Yukon River making their way barely inland and then fading while playing in circles between Alaska and Siberia. I mustn't complain, for I quite like the dark days. Keeps the dust on the dirt roads grounded and the willows thrive to their prime in such conditions. So as this day passes just as most this summer have, I'll not take for granted the droplets dripping down my window. Perhaps I'll even join them outside my front door.
Be The Wind
I want to stand amongst wicked winds. Let them throw and thrash and attempt to knock me down. I want to stand still slightly leaning in their direction. Let my hair fall in directions gravity isn't pulling. I want to outstretch my arms as though I'm attempting to hug the world, to catch the power. And as the air shakes the grass around me I want to feel still. I want to feel silent. I want to all be a part of the loud whisper. I'll let my body fall into a state unknown to many men. And for an instant, in wild prarie company, I will be the wind. I will be the air. Powerless yet with all the strength in the world.
Thrift Shop Pearl Necklace
At the thrift shop on the corner I found a pearl necklace. Four dollars and fifteen cents. Not quite sure if it's faux or real, but I suppose either way it doesn't have much effect. I'll accessorize each outfit with the golden white jewels. Accenting my collarbones that always seem to be hidden behind some sort of something. And when I slip them off at night, unhooking the golden clasp that reads 14 kge (no jewelry expert am I, but I hope to come across a book that tells me what that means) I will admire them fondly upon my nightstand. Pondering their home of the sea, imagining the glorious women that they were previously carefully worn upon. All of the events they have attended. All of the magical moments they have seen. And while viewing them sweetly, I'll enter my dreams, to dream what they will experience with me.
Sketching Unicorns
On this ragid old sofa in my wooden little house, I'll grab a pencil and paper today. The paper thin and stacked haphazardly binded by a cardboard cover. The pencil's cheap and not made for stetching. But with what I have, although not fit for art, I'll create a little something. Sketch a unicorn with wings jumping to the sky. Perfectly etched with long legs and a twisted horn. Beautiful eyes and dark hooves. And I'll think to myself what a darling wonder this being would be to see. My little piece of poorly drawn art will take me back to the innocent imagination I hold so dear to my mind. And on a nothingless day like today, make-believe seems to be the most pleasent of homes. And why not go there with a pencil and paper and a unicorn sketch?
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